Scream My Name
by I am Cara
Summary: The sequel to "Whatever Comes First." This takes place three months after. At their wedding, Tavington and Patricia are interrupted by the last strands of rebel forces, who are set on... burning the church.
1. Foreshadowing

Chapter One

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Disclaimer: I do not own T.P., just Patricia and Lark.

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A/N: Wowzers! (Ok, I will never say that again...) The first chapter of my new fanfic! Since everybody loved the last one, I am posting the sequel... and here it is. Please review!

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(Three months after the ending of 'Whatever Comes First')

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"Patricia Dawn Kellings! Are you ready yet?" called Lark, running through the halls of the chapel. She stumbled over the folds of her dress, which signified her maid-of-honor-ness. She called Patricia's name again, looking for the bride.

Patricia, meanwhile, was finishing up in her room, fumbling with an annoying flower pin that just wouldn't stay on. She already had poked herself in the chest with it about four times, and she had two tiny holes in her dress from it.

She heard Lark yelling, and cried, "I'm in here."

Lark came in, closing the door behind her and sighing. "Need any help?"

"Not now... I'm okay."

Lark stared at her, in akimbo. She grinned. "You are the surest bride I've ever seen."

Patricia laughed, but it was more like a sigh. "That's only on the outside, I'm afraid."

Lark wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "It'll be nice to see you with a ring on your finger," she said, "And a few children by your side. That is,if William doesn't like children."

Patricia shrugged and raised her eyebrow, sighing tiredly. Personally, she thought William had enough on his mind, let alone children, but she answered, "I think he does... But if we were to have them, he'd make sure one was a boy." She laughed.

She sat down in a chair and put a hand to her head. "I'm scared."

Lark watched her for a few minutes. There was a silence, before she asked, "Well, I'll be going. Be ready in fifteen minutes." The door thunked behind her.

So much had happened over the last three months, it was understandable Patricia would want some alone time.

Yes, she and Tavington had a monogamous relationship, and they prided themselves in it. They were still in America, in Ohio, to be exact. Everyone else (Cornwallis, Bordon, etc...) had gone back to England. O'Hara had, too, but had Lark's hand in marriage. He would be coming back to see her at William and Patricia's wedding... _and_ to see them. Tavington had asked Cornwallis if he could stay and reside in Ohio instead of returning to England, in order to keep his dignity, whereas in England, it would be lost.

He also did this for his fiancee's safety, knowing she would not be able to make the trip to England, and if she did, they would both be mocked.

And, Lady Cardian. She, in sorrow and in rage, had gone to Britain and was being courted (and was courting with) a young noble from Britain named Lord Burnisan.

Secretly, Patricia felt happy Lady Cardian had found someone, being a strong believer in the phrase, "There's someone out there for everyone."

Just not her William.

Meanwhile, Tavington was in his dressing room. He had to be out earlier than Patricia. He only had five minutes before he was expected to be standing out by the alter. O'Hara walked into the room, startling the ex-colonel (But we'll still call him colonel, anyway.)

"Colonel Tavington," O'Hara said, despite the unnecessary name, "There are some rebels outside."

Tavington stopped, dropping his comb. It fell to the floor with a clatter, and he whirled around.

"What?" he asked, disbelieving.

O'Hara knew he should've kept his mouth shut.

"There are rebel forces outside, sir," he said.

Tavington stared. There was a pause, before he turned around again, opening his drawer.

"It's can't be," he said, "Their leader is dead."

"Their leader is dead," O'Hara pointed out, "But they are not."

Another silence, and anyone could sense the growing anger in the room as the men faced each other, unsure of what to do.

"But don't be worried, though, "O'Hara spoke up quickly, trying to calm the furious man, "They say they are only here for the," He raised his eyebrows, confused, "'After party.'"

Tavington stared at him, before ripping open the drawer and slipping his pistol on the inside pocket of his suit. O'Hara looked horrified, knowing the colonel had just broken the number one rule at a wedding - No weapons in the church.

"My goodness, you can't — Jesus, Tavington, put that-" he started, but Tavington forcefully brushed past him to make his way to the door. He went to the cabinet at the far side of the wall and pulled open a compartment O'Hara had never noticed was there. He watched as the colonel slipped a razor inside his boot.

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do, O'Hara. My wife and I are possibly in danger." He reached inside the drawer again and flipped him a pocket knife. "I want every single one of those stupid rebels removed from the premises. Have my soldiers shoot them if they refuse to move."

He stood at the door, his hand on the knob. "I'll be damned if I have a good wedding."

O'Hara watched Tavington seethe and head out. "I suppose it'll be peachy, sir," he said, mockingly, "Just peachy."


	2. Interruption

Chapter Two

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Disclaimer: I own nothing 'cept for my own crapola.

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A/N: Here's chappie two!

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_Dong, dong, ding, ding, dong..._

The sounds of church bells and organs filled the air as the procession began

Patricia watched from the hall for her cue to enter, watching as her two other friends, Diedre and Kate, the maids of honor, walked slowly down the isle. Most of the people sitting in the pews were from Tavington's side of the family. She knew that her parents were down in Delaware, living out the last of their days. Patricia felt a little bad she hadn't told them she had even met William, let alone marry him, but there was a large chance they wouldn't be able to make the trip if she had.

Anyway, they were patriots. They wouldn't approve of him, and he would probably feel the same about them.

She looked at Tavington, standing at the alter, his face set straight, but she knew him well enough to look beyond that mask and see he was out of his mind with nervousness. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheekbone and was caught by a small kerchief tied around his neck. His leg was jiggling in anticipation. O'Hara, the best man, stood right behind him, comforting him.

She saw William whisper something to him, and the ex-general mouthed something back.

It was her time.

She slipped the veil over her head and stood there, waiting.

Lark took her by the elbow and led her down. Flowers adorned the isle itself, and petals littered her path. A warm breeze blew in from a drafty window, sending them scattering around her feet, and her veil blew up, allowing Tavington a moment's glimpse of his wife.

He gazed at her from his spot, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest as he watched her walk towards him... Jesus Christ, she was beautiful.

He faced her, seeing traces of her face behind the veil. Her long white dress, courtesy of himself, blew gently with the breeze emitted from the doors and windows. The sweetness of the air around was an indescribable, flowery scent. He looked at her and could swear he saw a grin.

The minister, and old, near-sighted man, had the church and the couple say a quick opening prayer, before reciting the words that had been imprinted in his mind from countless weddings before. The sacred words flowed from his lips, the words that bound people together for the rest of their lives.

"We are here today to celebrate the joining of Patricia Dawn Kellings and William Adian Tavington in holy matrimony."

The couple listened, both understanding the importance of this ritual, waiting.

Finally, after about an hour of sitting, standing and kneeling, the end drew near.

"William, do you take Patricia Dawn to be your lawfully wedded wife? Do you promise to love her, to honor and cherish her, until death do you part?"

William stared at the woman he loved so much, in front of him.

"I do."

"Patricia, do you take William Adian to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love him, to honor him and cherish him, until death do you part?"

A pause, as Patricia silently wiped the tears from her eyes.

"I do."

The minister closed the Bible with a resounding thud. No one in the pews said a word.

"Very well," he said, "By the power invested in me and the church, I now pronounce youman and wife. You may ki-"

A loud crashing of glass and gunshots tore through the silence, as the stained-glass windows were kicked in from all sides.


	3. The Attack

Chapter Three

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Disclaimer: I own nothing 'cept for what I own.

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A/N: I really don't have anything to say, but it doesn't look right if I don't have an AN...

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Tavington watched as the windows were booted in, as were the doors. Rebels swarmed in, coming from all sides. He saw O'Hara run in to defend Lark, who was kicking a rebel in the crotch for attacking her.

He sprang to attention. He needed to do something, or it might as well be the last time he see his wife. Grabbing her and ducking behind the stone alter, his breathing ragged, he took her head in his hands. She saw the fear in his eyes, and was worried.

"William..." she breathed, terrified for his life. He stared down at her. Pulling her close, he kissed the top of her forehead.

"I love you," he muttered.

Standing up, the colonel pulled the pistol out of his pocket and loaded it. "You stay here," he whispered, "I'll be back, I swear."

He ran off.

More gunshots rang out, and countless numbers of people, British and rebels, fell. O'Hara was putting an end to as many of the Americans as he could, before screaming, "Women and children, into the coatroom!" Since a church was not an apt place to have a battle in, they needed to find a place where they knew neither side would try to harm.

Patricia, still hiding behind the alter, felt helpless. She was unarmed, and wanted to kick herself for forgetting to ask William for anything he had. If he had a pistol, he had a knife, that was what she learned when being around him.

The sound of gunshots, screams, glass cracking and shattering, and O'Hara and Tavington yelling orders.

Suddenly, a rebel grabbed her. Throwing her to the floor, he kneeled next to her and wrapped his fingers around her neck. She made a _gack_, and tried to catch any air she could, but she couldn't. Trying to pry his fingers off of her, she was wasting more time. Circles danced before her eyes, and she knew her minutes were limited.

Getting a sudden idea, she pulled off her veil and wrapped it around his neck. Instantly, his hands were lifted, and he was trying to rip the cloth away. She took big gulps of much-needed air and pulled tighter. His face was turning purple, and she laughed and said, "Tell Satan you were defeated by a woman for me, okay?"

Finally, he went limp. She put a finger to his wrist to check his pulse. Dead.

A gunshot zooming over her head sent her ducking. She searched the rebel's pockets for something, anything, she could use to help fight. Ah hah! She found a pistol!

Having some mild experience with using a weapon, she loaded and aimed.

She peeked over the stone alter. Tavington was hacking a path through the rebels, only shooting the ones that aimed at him from a distance. As he fought with one rebel, she saw one come up behind him with an axe.. But he didn't! She fired, praying to god she had hit him.

She had.

Meanwhile, Tavington had spun around to see a man with a tomahawk behind him fall down, a bullet in his head. He saw Patricia running from her spot, dodging bullets in the dress she had cut down to size, having ripped off a large portion of it so she could move. He saw her run to O'Hara and Lark, fighting off a hoard of the rebels, hacking, slicing and shooting, and, in Lark's case, punching and beating down.

A dark-haired rebel with a sabre charged at him. He held out his pistol, pulled back the trigger, and fired.

But all that was heard was a 'click.'

He stared.

He was out of bullets.

The man tried to bring the sword down on him, but he shielded himself from it with the gun. "Shit!" he muttered. He needed to get over to Patricia and O'Hara, where he could stop fighting to reload his gun, without worrying about getting shot.

He didn't see the foot fly out in his path. He only saw the world spin, and heard a CRACK as his body landed on and slid down the cold stone floor. A fresh bout of pain shot through his arm, which he had landed on.

The sword-wielding rebel towered over him. He chuckled. "So you're that son of a bitch who they call the butcher, are you?" he asked, mockingly, "Then that means I'll be the butcher's butcher, eh? My name will go down in-"

Bam.

Blood spouted from a bullet wound in his chest.

"Hell," finished Patricia, standing behind him. Tavington smiled at her, and she smiled back, before —

WHACK.

She fell to the floor, knocked out from a rebel standing behind her, where he had beat her in the back of her head.


	4. The Plan

Chapter Four

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Disclaimer: I don't own nuthin'.

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A/N: ...

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Tavington stared at her crumpled figure.

Everyone was silent.

"Patricia..." he murmured, his eyes wide in shock and disbelieving. He knew well from experience to be hit with the butt or the barrel of a gun could, and would, break bones. He stared at her, looking for a movement. All he saw was her chest rise and fall, but that was good enough for him.

He, still being on his stomach, ignored his wounded arm and crawled over to her. Lark and O'Hara were standing, looking at Patricia with horror reflecting in their faces, a trickle of blood dripping down Lark's cheek where she had been slashed at.

Neither the rebels nor the British moved, the rebels were too horrified and disgusted with their own actions and afraid Tavington would saw their heads off, and all the British men, dead. They had not been prepared for an attack and carried no weapons.

Tavington took Patricia's head in his arms, looking at it, saying nothing. The rebels lowered their guns, sadness overcoming them. They had killed a woman... Even if she had tried to kill them, she was a Patriot (once), and was only defending her husband.

Lark, finally grasping the situation for what it was, ran over to the unconscious woman and took her pulse. Good. She also rubbed the back of her head and neck gently, feeling for any shattered bone fragments or cracks. Nothing.

All that would bother her when she was awake was a massive headache and a swollen bump.

But Tavington didn't know that.

Springing to his feet in a sudden rage, like he'd never had before, he started slashing at throats. He reached into his boot and found the knife he had put in there. Popping it out, all he had to do was back-kick someone and they'd fall, dead.

All rifles and muskets were now aimed at him, but he moved with such an angry passion, no one shot because they couldn't focus on him. To miss would be to shoot another one of their own.

Finally, Tavington's fury died. He dropped his knife and ran to Patricia, to check on her. Lark whispered to him,"She'll be alright."

Tavington stared at her. "I need you to do me a favor... For Patricia's sake."

Lark nodded.

"Bring her into the woods. Leave her there. Don't come back to her. She'll be safer there... Because it looks like my time on Earth is pretty much up now."

Lark glared at him. "Don't talk like- "

"Don't tell me how to talk!" He yelled, face red. He paused, reminding himself to cool off. "Do as I say, NOW. Take her to the woods. Leave her there. If they see you near her, they'll kill you."

He looked at her sternly. "If no word is heard from me, take her under your wing. I won't be coming back."

There was another silence, and Lark accepted the responsibility. Nodding, she held Patricia's shoulder, ready to pull her out of harm's way.

O'Hara stood next to the colonel, staring at the twenty-or-so rebels that faced them, fully armed, ready to fight until his death. He gave Lark a kiss, and said, "I'll be back."

Tavington motioned with his head for Lark to get Patricia away. As the girl dragged her best friend out of the church, he slowly bent over and pulled out his razor. He pushed up a knob and the blade popped out.

"Well, gentlemen, who's first?"


	5. Meeting Up, and a Small Suspicion

Chapter Five

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Patriot

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A/N: Tell me how it be so far!

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'Goodness gracious,' thought Lark, as she dragged the heavy body that was Patricia outside, 'She is _heavy_!"

She pulled her down the hill, trying not to hurt her or bump her around to much. After a while, she decided it best to sling her over her shoulder.

Despite the enormous amounts of pressure and the cracking weight on her shoulders pulling her down, she struggled for a while, then finally started off. She staggered while running, but regained her footing and balance and kept moving. As she ran towards the woods, she felt something brush her shoulder... Even odder, it was the shoulder that Patricia was _on_.

She stopped. Nothing. She could've sworn...

Oh, well.

Reaching the edge of the forest, she gently put Patricia down beside her. Honestly, how could someone sleep through all that? As she looked at the road ahead, she realized there was no way she could get through the underbrush to hide her friend without someone getting hurt. She couldn't drag, pull, or carry her, and Tavington's orders were to _hide_ her in the forest. If the rebels came down, they could easily see and kill her.

It was her Lark's safety, or Patricia's life.

Picking her up honey-moon style, she stepped over logs, sticks, rocks, and the like, her face getting scraped with all sorts of things that scraped people when in the forest. Damn, did she just step in poison ivy? Dammit!

After carrying her into the heart of the forest for about twenty five minutes, she rested Patricia's head against a moldy stump, as cushioning. She looked around. It was a clearing about ten feet wide, with the edge off a creek flowing through it. Perfect.

She stood up, stretched, and headed towards the church.

When she got there, she was horrified.

It was burning.

She ducked and peeked over the hills as rebels swarmed out, holding torches and laughing to themselves. Their horses were going wild, prancing and stomping and nipping at one another. Like a band of cowboys, they rode off, leaving the church ablaze.

"Charles!" she screamed (O'Hara's first name), "William!"

Nothing, except the loud crackles, like the ones you'd hear at a bonfire. There was also the sound of glass shattering.

The rebels war-whooped. "Burn the church, ay? Burn the church! I'll show you how to burn the church, colonel!"

She ran towards the building, and started banging her fists on the wall. It was hot. He tried to look through the windows, but all she saw were flames.

Then, she heard voices inside.

"Lark!" cried the voice of O'Hara. It was muffled.

Lark paused. Was she hearing correctly...?

"CHARLES!" she screamed, banging on the walls even more.

"Lark, get away from the window. William and I are breaking out!"

Lark stepped back, and glad she did, because in a rain of glass and burning wood, O'Hara and Tavington broke through.

Out they tumbled, coughing, falling onto the ground in coughing fits. They were both covered in soot and grime. Flames burst from the open window towards the new source of oxygen.

Lark ran to help them. "Are you okay?" she asked, brushing the soot out of their eyes, which were inadvertently tearing. They both nodded, and Tavington showed her a little burn he had received on his leg.

They stood up, and for safety, put ground between them and the church. As they walked towards the forest, Tavington stated, "I'm going back after them."

O'Hara stopped. "Colonel, that's madness. You can't possibly be serious. What you need is to get back to Patricia and carry out your wedding schedule as it always has been."

Tavington glared. "And what would that be?"

O'Hara smiled. "Well, the minister never said, "You may now kiss the bride", so something along the lines of that, and then you've got the reception and the honeymoon and everything else –"

Tavington rolled his eyes. "There won't be a reception, O'Hara," he snapped, "And a honeymoon? Here? I think not."

There was silence, as the trio walked into the forest.

Lark took the lead. "Okay. Now follow me, and don't step in that," she said, pointing to the poison ivy she had previously walked into.

They followed her, until they reached the clearing, where Patricia lay. Tavington, as soon as he saw her, ran to her. He lifted her head, and she warily opened her eyes.

"Patricia!" he cried, and hugged her. She smiled weakly, and said, "William."

He smiled at her, helping her prop herself up against a tree. He pulled out a canteen and popped it open. 'Here," he said, "Drink it."

She drank some, and then put a hand to her head to steady herself. "What happened?"

Tavington grinned to himself, rejoicing that his beloved was alive.

"Nothing."


	6. Surprise, Surprise

Chapter Six

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Disclaimer: I only own Patricia, nothing else.

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A/N: There are some **strong 'suggestive' comments **in here, but you can handle that... right?

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So the group stayed like that, hidden in the forest, for a few nights.

Tavington and O'Hara had created a fire pit in the center of the clearing. Lark had been aiding to Patricia, and was usually seen boiling water in a small pot to cleanse it of bacteria, before throwing in bundles of herbs and making dinner.

Tavington's newest project was to make a small hut or tent of some kind to keep out of the rain with. The weather the last few days was warm, but too many warm and humid days in a row foreshadowed rain.

The church had completely burned down, and the fire was out. Although the group knew this, from taking peeks at it in their spare time, none of the dared to go out side the clearing, because the rebel militia was still around and guarding the village.

Finally, one day, Tavington couldn't bear it anymore. "There are pieces of unburned wood in that church, some of them very big," he said, "I'm going to go get some of them. We might be able to use them for a -"

Patricia, who had made an almost full recovery, stamped her foot down and said, "No."

Tavington glared. "And why, may I ask, can I not?"

"Do you think I want you going down there and getting pumped full of grapeshot?" she retorted.

There was a pause, and Tavington sighed, "Fine."

O'Hara and Lark could sense, being the good friends they were, the growing... hmm, what was it? Passion... or tension? Well, the newlyweds hadn't had any time to themselves, so either way, it was best they be alone.

"How about we go and get it?" Lark asked.

Another pause.

"Go ahead," said William.

Lark, taking O'Hara by the arm and grinning coyly, whispered to him, "They need a break from us... Don't you think?"

In a few minutes, they were out of sight.

Tavington looked at Patricia, and she noticed he was staring. "Yes?" she asked.

A pause.

"I believe our minister never got the chance to let me kiss you," he said, quietly.

Patricia smiled. "Well, we can't have something like _that_ happen and stay like that, can we?"

Tavington wrapped his arms around her waist. "I think not."

He kissed her, his hand trailing through her brownish-red hair, as she did the same, her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply, clinging to him. As they parted, she mouthed, "I love you."

He stared at her, then kissed her again, with an intensity deeper than the first, and she matched it.

There was a pause, as they gazed into each other's eyes.

"I'm yours," Patricia said, and Tavington replied, gently, "Will you regret that when I'm done?"

A grin.

"No."

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Twenty minutes later, as they were getting dressed, Patricia started acting... oddly.

She began stumbling around, dizzy, and then, she keeled over.

"Patricia!" cried Tavington, and ran to grab her before she fell. He caught her, and felt her head. She didn't have a fever...

She vomited.

He lay her against a tree, giving her more water. She gulped it down, then smiled weakly and said, "I've got something to tell you..."

He squatted next to her, listening intently.

"Remember that first night I... spent with you... when you rejected Lady Cardian?" she asked.

He nodded. (How could he forget _that_?)

"Well," she coughed, "I've been holding your child ever since. I'm three months pregnant."

A silence, while the words snapped across the clearing like a whip.

Tavington looked at her stomach. Now that he noticed, there was a small bump forming. And he had always thought she had only gained weight...

"My god, Patricia..." he muttered.

She smiled.

There was a silence, and he embraced her.

The crackling of leaves and branches predicted Lark and O'Hara, and the prediction was correct. The couple came in, carrying large pieces of unburned wood. They stopped and stared at Tavington and Patricia.

"Bad time?" asked O'Hara, ready to leave again.

Tavington smiled and got up. "No, not at all," he said, "In fact, you're right on time for the good news."

Lark threw the boards of wood towards the edge of the clearing and dusted herself off. She helped O'Hara unload them, too. "Yes?" she asked, sitting down.

Another pause.

"Patricia is with child."


	7. Night

**Chapter Seven**

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tavington or O'Hara, or The Patriot, for that matter.

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**A/N:** Hey, guess what, everyone! Some girl made a fanfiction about Tavington and The Patriot, and it was so good it became a published book! And guess what! I bought it! The only screwy thing about it is the fact that The Patriot is owned by someone else, so she had to change the names to 'Jason William Tarrington." Ah, well. I still suggest you read it. IM me for details.

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Sitting around the campfire, the bunch all chattered and ate.

Lark had cooked up some stew from Tavington and O'Hara's hunt. She had created a broth from rose hips and onion grass, and had fresh stag meat boiling in there.

Patricia now spent her time eating and sewing reeds and grasses together. Her idea was to create some sort of... tarp... over the clearing. None of them went farther than the creek, because the rebels weren't able to find their bodies in the church, and were now on the hunt for them.

Sure, the rebs had entered the forest. But they had only gone about twenty feet in, and were far from causing them any trouble.

The only thing that threatened to blow their cover was the fire pit. Although they were close, Tavington wasn't worried.

"Lark picked out a spot with a good forty-minute walk ," he'd always say, "And anyway, if we feel they're coming any closer, we'll move in deeper."

But everyone, even Tavington, became nerve-racked at any sound. They all became a little more paranoid, because Tavington was still out of bullets, and a knife wasn't going to stop a militia.

O'Hara had lost his weapon when fighting in the church, and Lark couldn't kill someone by kicking them. But they had all sworn to protect Patricia first and foremost, because she was more like two people than one. Often, at night, as they lay, she would take William's hand and place it on her stomach. He'd feel the tiny baby kick and punch and rustle around, and they'd both have a good laugh about it.

Anyway...

As they sat around the fire, the topic of Patricia's child came up.

"So," said Lark, "What do you want to name it?"

A pause, Tavington replied, "If it's a girl, than either Morgan or Blanche, or maybe Cheyenne. If it's a boy, Christopher, Jacob" he smirked, "Or William."

Patricia smiled. "There were a lot of choices."

A pause, and then O'Hara asked, "Do you plan on telling him about your past?" It was directed at Tavington.

"My what?"

"You know... the warfare..."

Silence.

Tavington shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That is for my wife to decide."

Patricia looked down quietly. "We'll discuss it later," she said to him.

"Do you really want to give birth to him here?" asked Lark. She swiped at a black fly that had been buzzing around her head, trying to bite her.

"Give birth to him where? In Ohio?"

"No, I mean... this little campsite."

Patricia looked at her quizzically. "I suppose I'll have to," she said, thinking, "If the rebs don't disperse quickly, I have no choice. Although, I'd rather be in a bed with a doctor by my side, but we can't always get what we want..."

Tavington looked at her. _'I'll make sure you do, Patricia Tavington.'_

That night, when the girls had gone to bed, Tavington sat with O'Hara, finishing off the last of the beer they had stolen. The fire was growing dim, for only ambers gave them light.

"I'll go tomorrow," said the colonel, randomly.

O'Hara looked at him. "Go where?"

"Into the village."

O'Hara laughed. "Whatever you say, colonel..."

Tavington looked him in the eye. "I'm serious, Charles. Patricia can't stay in this place, especially with my child coming. She needs better care, and as soon as she can get it. I say, what will you do when fall and winter comes? Be eaten alive by black flies and then freeze to death?"

The general stared. "I can't believe you would do something so foolish as that," he said.

"Foolish?" asked William, "Or does it mean foolishness when a man goes against a rebel militia by himself?"

"So, you're calling yourself a fool."

Tavington smiled. "No, I am not."

O'Hara thought for a moment, before realizing what he meant. "You're not going alone? Who's helping you?"

Another smile.

"No, I'm not," said Charles, "You remember how overprotective you were of your wife when she was your fiancee. It's the same for me now."

Tavington shrugged. "Fine then," he said, "My wife will die because she won't have a doctor by her side, Lark will freeze to death, I'll be on a cart to the dumping grounds with a bullet through my chest, and you," he said, "You'll be alone."

There was another silence, and Tavington finished his beer.

"The worst that can happen is that we'll both die. I'll leave instructions for Lark and Patricia to come out the other side of the woods if anything... arises. There, they will be safe in another village."

There was a suspenseful silence.

"Alright."

"Good. We leave in the morning."

"The morn– We can't! We have to at least tell them where we are off to. Can you imagine their worry when they wake up to discover we're gone!"

"Then we'll leave a note."

"That simply isn't right, Colonel Tavington. To leave a woman is one thing, to leave a woman without her knowing is another."

Tavington looked at him, a glance saying they were done arguing. "You'll be alone, O'Hara. Remember that."

O'Hara hated being blackmailed, but what was a man to do?

"..."

"As I said before," Tavington continued, wistfully, "We leave in the morning."


	8. Saying Farewell

Chapter Eight

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Disclaimer: I own nuthin'.

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A/N: Yeah... This'll be the last chapter for a while, because I've been taking time off from this to write my other fanfics, if you haven't noticed. About the Tavy book (which I do not own), it's called 'Beyond All Reason.' I won't say anymore on here for fear of being kicked off, my screen name is BellaLuna129.

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O'Hara was having a lovely dream... He was dreaming about Lark, and how sweet she would look if she was pregnant. He imagined her smiling and laughing, nibbling his ear playfully, hugging him. The perfect world... that he didn't have.

"O'Hara."

The sound of his name snapped him from his dream.

He sat up quietly, remembering that if he woke the girls, Tavington would have his ass. Keeping quiet, he got up and brushed himself off.

"O'Hara!"

Morning in the forest was beautiful. The clearing, although small, was shrouded in mist, which made it seem long and big and going on forever. Birds chirped, for they were always up early. The first rays of the sun shone through the trees, creating shadows. The air was moist and cold, and even taking a step meant you were getting your boots wet.

As beautiful as it was, it was also eerie. Anyone who had the option to stay in the campsite if given would've taken it, praying to god as they lay that nothing would come into the camp and kill them, praying that they would fall asleep again and wake up.

"O'Hara, get up!"

The Lord's aid moaned silently and pulled himself up.

Tavington looked down at the sleeping women and the drowsy lapdog. He was dressed and ready to go, but O'Hara felt like being slow and wasn't making any progress.

He latched up his boot. Pulling a burned branch from last night's fire, he scraped it against a rock, sharpening it. It made a louder _Eeek_ than he had thought it would. He stopped.

Patricia moaned in her sleep and rolled over, oblivious to the noise.

O'Hara, finally dressed, took a razor from his pocket and sharped the tip of the branch to a point, without making a sound.

But Tavington only realized how painful this would be as it was happening.

Leaning the branch against a tree, he looked at his wife, who meant everything to him. Everything.

She was his_ life_.

Kneeling down gently next to her, he picked up her head and kissed her. She didn't wake.

O'Hara was staring at Lark with sadness, before both the men stood up and began their trip.

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It was about two hours later when Lark and Patricia woke up, and to their surprise, but not worry, Tavington and O'Hara were gone.

"They've probably gone off hunting," Patricia reassured herself. Although she was smart enough to know that she would've woken up if there had been a skirmish in the camp, the rebels were too close for comfort.

But that night , she was panicked.

"Lark"

"I know, Patricia. Let's just calm down and-"

Patricia screamed. "We're not going to get anything done just by sitting here waiting for them to come back! We're not! I'll go after them if I have to!"

Lark sat, saying nothing, poking the fire with a stick. It sent ashes billowing up.

"Listen to yourself," she said, serenely, "That much stress will hurt your baby."

Patricia stood, looking down at her friend, before realizing she was doing the wrong thing. She took some deep breaths and closed her eyes.

The baby kicked her.

"Do you honestly think we'd wake up unharmed if a reb had gotten in here and killed Charles and William?" Lark asked her, slurping up some of the wild broth they were cooking.

"It's not that, that I'm worried about," she said, "I'm afraid that he might've..."

Lark waited for her to go on, but Patricia said nothing more. She looked over at her friend.

She was crying.

'Patricia...?" Lark asked cautiously. Patricia need stroking right now, but only William had the right to give it. Nothing else would make her feel better.

There was a heavy silence, cut only by the crackling of the fire and of the crickets chirping.

"What if he left me? He might not want this baby at all," Patricia whispered, silent tears streaming down her face. Her face was puffy and wet, and her beautiful brown eyes were swollen red.

Although it was late at night and she knew wild animals lurked in the forest unseen, Lark took her hand and held it.

"Come on," she said.

Patricia stood. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere."

They took some foot-long sticks and smeared the tips with the wild broth. Then, lighting them and using them as torches, they went off.

They hiked through the woods, listening to the crickets chirp and the mysterious _Crack! _of leaves and branches around them. The night air was warm and dry. Lark, who led the way, would occasionally hear the rustling of a bush next to her and the sniffling of Patricia as she wiped away her tears.

Finally, Lark saw the marker she had seen quite a few times before.

"Hurry!" she whispered to Patricia as she ducked a branch, "We're almost there."

Pulling her through the dense brush was a back-breaker, but the next thing they saw was amazing.

Lark had pulled her to the end of the forest, but not the other side which Patricia had expected to go. No, they had come out the _side_ of the forest.

There was a clearing, and right after that, there was a rocky cliff and a steep drop below. They sat down, and Patricia accidently put her hand in some mud, which told her she was sitting next to the same stream that was in their campsite.

They looked up at the stars. The cool night air blew around them, chilling them in a refreshing way. Lark tore of a large strip of her dress, folded it, and gave it to Patricia as a pillow.

"If you're still afraid, just know that if anything tried to get us her, all you'd have to do is kick them in the spot and give them a push off that rock. They won't be coming back," she said, and they both laughed.

Underneath the stars, two colonial women fell asleep.


End file.
